Babel - A Review

So much fantasy is a re-hashing of old ideas, it's rare to come across a book featuring something new and exciting. But R.F. Kuang's masterful book Babel does just that. It tells an amazing story set in an alternate universe version of Oxford, England, where colonialism reigns supreme, and magic is wielded through the power of silver.

Set in the 1830's, the story begins with a small boy living in the inner streets of Canton. His mother has died of Cholera, and he, himself is slowly dying of that same ailment. When a mysterious Englishman arrives on the scene and finds that the boy is still barely alive, he uses an enchanted bar of silver to cure his disease and revive him. Because the boy had an English nanny, he was able to speak both English and Cantonese, and with this talent, the strange Englishman, named Professor Lovell, offers to take him to England and tutor him in the ways of translation. At Lovell's insistence, the boy abandons his Chinese name and adopts a new one: Robin. When pressed to add a surname to this, Robin chooses 'Swift,' because he read and loved Gulliver's Travels.

Only later does Robin learn that this strange man, Professor Lovell, was likely his father, and that he had been deliberately siring bastard children all over China's opium dens for the express purpose of finding and raising a child who could translate the subtleties of Mandarin.

In England, Robin revels in his studies, glorying in the many texts he was allowed to read, and basking in the privileges he was suddenly enjoying. But he quickly learns that his new lifestyle isn't free. After one wayward day of enjoying London's sights too much, Lovell beats him with a fireplace poker, and tells him in no uncertain terms that he will not tolerate laziness. In spite of this harsh lesson, Robin excels in his studies, gains admission to Oxford University, and begins training to be one of England's most coveted resources - a translator.

While there, Robin learns the secrets of silver. A silver bar can be enchanted through the subtle differences between two languages. If the enchanter can truly think and dream in both, he can engrave a matching word-pair on either side of the silver bar. And, since no two matching words carry exactly the same connotation, the match-pair gives the silver the magical ability to express the subtle differences between the two in reality. For example, the silver bar which cured Robin on the streets of Canton was engraved with the words, 'Treacle' and 'Triacle' (meaning "antidote" in old French). This has the effect not only of curing an ailment, but also leaving a butterscotch-sweet aftertaste in one's mouth!

In other words, what is "lost in translation" is literally captured by silver! This magical ability, able to be harnessed solely through silver and language differences, is the technology which powers all development in this alternate version of England. Translatable pairs of different words pertaining to "resistance" have the effect of reducing friction on trains, making them run faster. They can also make steam ships attain greater speed. Similar pairings do other things, like bolstering the structure of buildings, refrigerating and/or preserving foods, even controlling carriages. They are all done through the linguistic enchantment of silver. As such, Oxford and London are cities virtually made of silver, and England does all it can to horde its silver supply. Yet this power has limits. An enchanted silver bar will eventually run out of power, and must be melted down, recycled, and re-enchanted. Furthermore, more familiar European languages are generating less and less power. More exotic languages must be brought in to generate stronger enchantments. Furthermore, a wrongly enchanted silver bar will break, and even its fragments are too contaminated to ever use again. As such, the role of the Oxford translators is absolutely critical. Without them, the whole of England would grind to a halt!

This is a new form of punk. Not steampunk, and not biopunk, but language-punk. Or perhaps wordpunk. Having etymology generate magic is nothing short of a brilliant stroke of genius on Kuang's part. It is such an overwhelmingly powerful idea, and yet so fundamentally simple in concept, that one can't help but genuflect. Kuang has emerged as the Umberto Eco of the SFF world!

Kuang does not waste her big idea. She takes the time to explain all the details in her story, making the reader fully understand, not only the nuances of the dizzyingly multitudinous languages she deals with, but also the even more subtle twists and turns of the main characters' emotions. Particularly with Robin Swift, she paints a picture of a complicated person, a bastard half-Chinese child straddling two different worlds, and thus two different outlooks. But she does not do this in a long-winded and boring way. She does so engagingly, so that the reader feels the joy of discovery even as Robin does. This is masterful use of form, in any language.

Robin encounters the dark side of British colonialism early. Lurking in the streets of Oxford is another half-Chinese boy, a few years older than himself, who looks so similar to him he almost thinks it might be a reflection in a mirror. This other boy, named Griffin, reveals to him the awful truths of British imperial power, as well as the dark truth that Professer Lowell is both his and Robin's father. Griffin recruits Robin to join the underground, anti-imperialistic movement called the Hermes Society. At first, Robin agrees, more so because he is cowed into it than out of any understanding as to what truly is going on. Later on, he quits, telling Griffin that he won't help unless he gets more answers. The secretive Griffin refuses, and Robin leaves. Yet later on, he discovers two of his classmates have also gotten entangled with the Hermes Society. When they get caught, he rescues them and takes the fall for their crimes.

Not long after that, Robin and his classmates are sent on a voyage to China, ostensibly to act as translators for trade negotiations. It is there that he learns the truly terrible secret about British-Chinese trade relations. The Britons have nothing the Chinese want, so there exists a growing trade deficit, as British love for tea means demand for Chinese exports remains high. In exchange for tea, the Chinese will only accept silver. If this trend continues, China will soon become the center of silver dealings and manufacture, and the Oxford scholars would have to relocate to Beijing or Hong Kong. To prevent this, the British need something that the Chinese will trade for to balance the exchanges out. They have only one thing the Chinese even remotely want: opium. As such, the British will stop at nothing to force the opium trade upon China. 

Robin finds out about this as he is translating the British demands to a Chinese official. In the course of these dealings, the official points out that the British have outlawed opium, and asks why China should accept something that England regards as illegal. The British response is flippant, saying that laws aren't the point, but rather free trade is. Suddenly, the official takes an interest in Robin: this strange half-Chinaman who knows both Mandarin and English so well. After learning about Robin's background, he swiftly concludes the negotiations for the day.

And the following evening, he lights the British cargo ships on fire.

I can't tell you about the aftermath of this, because it would spoil the book. But trust me when I say, the outcome is cataclysmic.

This is a tragedy. One should not expect a happy ending. But one should expect to be thoroughly enthralled. It's the sort of ending that cements Robin Swift in the annals of British history (or, at least, this alternate version of British history), much the same way Guy Fawkes was after the Gunpowder Revolt of 1605. It is a masterful piece of storytelling.

I will conclude by speculating why this particular book was ruled ineligible for the Hugo Awards. After all, this book won the Nebula (for good reason!), and it almost follows as a matter of course that a Nebula winner is automatically a Hugo nominee. Yet that didn't happen. By now, it's no secret that Chinese censorship laws tied the hands of the Hugo Awards Administration, and that therefore certain works deemed to be defamatory towards China, or sympathetic to Taiwan, Tibet, Hong Kong, or the Uighurs, had to be ruled out, likely to protect the hosts of Chengdu's Worldcon. I speculate elsewhere as to what the exact legal loophole was. But clearly, there is nothing overtly insulting towards China in this book. So what was the problem? Primarily, it is one of tone. There is no great defamation towards China within Babel, but there is a great degree of Occidental ethnocentrism. (Without endorsing such, I hasten to add!) The attitude of British superiority is rife within this plot, and more than once, the ethnic slur of "chink" is thrown about by certain British characters. It is likely that overall tone which caused the Hugo Team to rule this book out. This was, in my retrospective opinion, probably a mistake.

Read. This. Book! (Trust me!)

Eric

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